Wherever You Will Go
by saelysia-the-greater
Summary: "Dean Winchester had given up every hope he had ever had for a childhood the moment his father handled him a six-month-old Sam, yelling for him to take his brother and run." Dean would do anything for Sam, anything that he ever asked him to. Even leave his life as a hunter. One-shot, Wincest, rated M for occasional language and M-rated scene.


**_Wherever You Will Go_**

_A/N: Hello there, all! I'm on winter break, as I'm sure you all are too, and this story has been burning at me for the past couple of days. Yes, I'm all aboard the Wincest train now. It's a beautiful train. Anyway, over the break, I will be updating for my other stories, even if they're small updates. This I so solemnly swear._

_"Wherever You Will Go" - Charlene Soraia, "Oblivion" - Bastille, "Angels" - The Xx, and "If I Lose Myself (Acoustic)" by OneRepublic wrote this story._

**WARNING: **_This story contains an M-rated, incestuous scene between two men. If that makes you squicky, hit that back button and don't read._

* * *

Dean Winchester had given up every hope he had ever had for a childhood the moment his father handled him a six-month-old Sam, yelling for him to take his brother and run.

He had lost his mother that night, he lost his home and all of the happy memories there, all of the times his mother had sung him to sleep when he had nightmares, the tomato and rice soup she made when he was sick, the little angel figurine in the nursery. He could still remember how she smelt, like fresh linen and roses, and how her hair had shone in the sunshine.

He still thought of her sometimes, especially when Sam was angry or his dad was drunk, and he tried to think of what she would do to handle them. She had a way of soothing people, the calm right after the storm.

She would be able to draw the sting from John's criticisms, to brush Sammy's hair away from his forehead and find a way to calm him down. She would hold their family together with her laughter and smiles and love.

Dean had been four years old when he mother had died and all but lost his father to this insane quest revenge. He had lost his hope for a normal, stable childhood, and gained the knowledge that the monsters under the bed are very real, very scary, and they went after the people that you loved.

Now Dean was twenty one, standing in the kitchen with his back pressed against the wall as Sammy and John screamed at one another, John's face red with fury, a vein standing out in his temple, hands waving wildly.

Sammy stood opposite of him, his fists clenched tightly, his face flushed and his jaw set in anger, his hazel eyes never once straying from John' s irate ones.

Dean was suddenly struck at how tall Sammy was. His baby brother had always been huge, and he was a good three to four inches taller than Dean was now, and he had started to bulk up, transforming him from the lanky, scrawny kid to – yes, dammit, he was going for a chick flick moment – the man who was standing in front of him.

Sammy hadn't been a child in a long time, Dean realised, not since that day when Dean had come home bloody and beaten, his shirt torn to shreds, his face bruised up and his torso covered in long, shallow scratches from a wendigo's claws. Sam had been eight, too young to take on a hunt, John said, but it had been time for Dean to man up and put his training to use.

* * *

Dean had snuck in through their motel room's bathroom window, lest the pretty lady at the front desk with the blonde hair that reminded him of his mom's see him and try to contact the police. He would have never been able to come up with a story they believed, and he and Sammy would have been taken from their dad and probably split up in the system.

Dean couldn't bear the thought of that – he couldn't be without Sam and Sammy needed him – so he used the dumpster on the backside of the motel, keeping an eye out for passerbys, to lift himself up. Once he had a grasp of the windowsill, he balanced himself gingerly with one arm, one foot pressed to the farthest edge of the dumpster, and with his other hand he pulled out one of his many pocket knives and flicked it open, sticking the point of the knife in the window tract.

He fiddled with it for a moment, the action being like a second nature to him, before the window popped and lifted slightly. He stuck the knife in his back pocket and wedged his free hand under the window and lifted it, using his other arm to grip the towel bar just underneath the sill on the inside when the window was open as far as it would go.

He was about to grab the bar with his other hand when his foot wobbled and he lost his precarious footing on the dumpster, and for a moment he panicked blindly, thinking he was just going to fall when a much smaller hand grabbed his free one from the inside and pulled his arm forward.

Slowly, Dean raised himself up, using his feet to climb up the wall and slid in the window, nearly losing his balance and falling on his face as he pulled his legs in.

His feet caught against the sill, catching him before he went sprawling onto the cheap linoleum floor, the hand that wasn't currently being mangled in Sammy's vice-like grip braced against the toilet.

Sammy, small, eight-year-old Sammy with his messy hair and bright, inquisitive eyes, was still holding onto his hand and he said, quite straightforwardly, "I would have let you fall in if I didn't think you were already hurt."

Dean chuckled lowly and pulled his hand away from Sam's, maneuvering himself so he sat upright on the toilet. "Thanks, Sammy," he said gruffly, sighing as the ache from his injuries began to set in. "Can you get me the first aid kit please?"

Sammy stood there for a moment, his arms crossed, before he nodded and ducked into the motel room; Dean could hear him rooting around in the duffel bags, gently setting aside weapons and canisters of salt and shifting through the minimal clothing that they had.

He came back a few moments later, the kit pressed to his chest, and he stood in the doorway looking slightly unsure of what to do next. "What…what do you need me to do?" Sammy asked, his voice unnaturally small.

Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at his baby brother curiously, shaking his head and wondering what had gotten into him. "Just gimme the kit, Sammy. I can patch myself up."

To this day, Dean was still unsure of the war of emotions that crossed Sammy's face as he entered the bathroom, set the kit on the sink, and began to remove Dean's ruined shirt gingerly. He hands shook slightly as his fingers brushed over Dean's skin, a determined expression on his face. "I want to do it, Dean," he said, "just tell me what to do." He tossed the remnants of Dean's shirt into the trashcan, grabbing a washcloth and running it under some warm water.

"O-okay Sammy," Dean said, his throat feeling oddly tight. His heart began to race a little as Sammy wrung the washcloth out and started dabbing gently at Dean's chest to clean away the dried blood. "When you're done that, just…ah…put some disinfectant on it. I don't need stitches or anything.

Sammy sighed quietly in relief, and Dean was struck by how calm and collected his little brother was. Normally, Sammy would tear up at the sight of his big brother bleeding, but he showed no signs of tears as he methodically cleaned Dean's chest and then his face, taking care not to press down too hard on the bruises.

When he felt that Dean was cleaned up properly, Sammy opened the first aid kit and pulled out the small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and another rag, holding it over the sink as he wet it slightly with the disinfectant, smiling apologetically at Dean as he kneeled before him. "Hold still," he said, pressing the cloth against one of the scratches.

Dean flinched and sucked in a breath through his teeth at the burn, but he said nothing and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the pain.

Sammy was still gentle as he cleaned each scratch, wiping the rag over them carefully to avoid inflicting anymore pain on Dean. "What next?" he asked when he was finished, standing once more to put the rag in the sink and wash the alcohol off his hands.

"Bandages," Dean said, leaning his head back against the wall, his eyes falling shut. He felt like every bone in his body was aching from exhaustion, and all he wanted to do was sleep until he was forty. "There should be some gauze in there."

Sammy pulled out a wad of gauze, looking at it uncertainly. "Is this going to be okay?" he asked, holding it up for Dean to see.

Dean cracked an eye open, and he nodded. "Should be fine until Dad gets back," he said tiredly. "Dad'll be back soon."

With his eyes closed, Dean missed Sam's skeptical look, but he felt Sammy's small hands on his torso, wrapping the bandage around the affected areas, taking care not to jostle him too much. "Yeah, he will," Sam said quietly, so quiet that Dean wasn't even entirely sure that he said anything.

When Dean was wrapped up to what Sam assumed was the proper way – he had never patched anyone up before – he pulled Dean to his feet and led him into the motel room, clearing one of the beds of their duffel bags and supplies and sat Dean down on the edge, kneeling down to unlace his brother's boots.

"Do you want to change into some pyjama pants?" Sam asked him.

"'M fine," was the slurred reply.

"Let me get you some medicine," Sammy said, throwing Dean's boots into the corner and disappearing into the bathroom, coming back a heartbeat later with two small pills in his hand. He cupped the back of Dean's neck with his hand and pressed his other one to Dean's mouth. "Swallow."

Dean did as he was told, his eyes opening when his lips brushed over Sam's palm, his heart going into double time. He dry swallowed the pills, wincing slightly at the taste, and allowed Sam to lay him down on one side of the bed, too tired to protest when Sam curled up on the other side of him.

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam said. "I'll be right here until you wake up."

Dean nodded and felt his eyes close, and his last conscious thought was the realisation of how he was starting to fall in love with his little brother.

* * *

The sound of shouting pulled Dean out of his reminiscing, John's mouth twisted into an angry snarl in Sam's direction, Sammy's flushed face the same shade as the red shirt that he was wearing. Dean had said nothing the entire time, this was between his brother and his father, but he felt his sense of injustice prickle up at John insisting that Sam didn't want to be a part of their family, and that he didn't care about any of them.

_You've never heard him whisper "I love you" into your ear in the dark, just before he falls asleep in your arms. You've never had him stare into your eyes and tell you that he trusted you more than anyone in the world. You've never listened to him sigh and shudder with pleasure and you've never had him kiss you with so much love you felt like your heart was going to explode._

_You wouldn't know just how much Sammy loves me, Dad, because you're never around to see it._

* * *

"Have you ever kissed anyone, Dean?"

Dean looked up from the knife he was sharpening, staring at a twelve-year-old Sam, who was looking nonchalantly at the page of the book he was reading. Which he was holding upside down. This must have really been bothering him.

"I have," Dean said slowly, setting the knife down. "Why do you ask?" His heart started to pound in his chest as Sammy sighed and set the book down, looking up at Dean with a resigned expression.

"Because this kid in my science class was bragging that he kissed a girl this weekend when they went to the skating rink," Sam said, looking slightly disgusted. "The other guys started high-fiving him and cheering for him, but I don't see the point. Is kissing that great?"

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, thinking back to Ronda Hurley's mouth on his, covered in sticky, cherry-flavored lip gloss, how he had closed his eyes and tried to figure out what to do with his hands, so he rested them awkwardly on her hips, while she slobbered on his face.

She had pushed him away after about ten seconds and shook her head, wiping stray lip gloss from around her lips and readjusting her cardigan. She was a pretty girl, with shoulder-length curly red hair and big blue eyes, freckles dusted across her face, and Dean had heard all of the boys in school had kissed her.

"What's wrong with you?" she'd asked, staring at him as she crossed her arms.

"I…I…" Dean tried to think of something to say, but nothing could come to mind. He honestly had no idea why he didn't enjoy kissing her. She hadn't done anything wrong, and guys, especially teenaged guys, were supposed to like kissing girls, right? "I don't really know."

She cocked her head, looking him up and down, before her blue eyes widened and she asked, "Do you like guys better than girls?"

Dean's thought immediately went to Sam, who was starting to hit his growth-spurt, all elegant arms and legs, how Dean loved to run his fingers through Sam's soft hair, how soft and pink his lips looked and how Dean sometimes couldn't breathe around him, and he felt his entire face flush.

"OhmyGod," Ronda chirped, "you totally do!"

Dean ducked his head, staring down at his boots, waiting for her to begin calling him names, her feminine voice replaced by his father's in his head, calling him disgusting and unnatural. He couldn't hit her, she was a girl, so he would have stood there until he'd had enough and then he would've walked away.

"Dean," Ronda said gently, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his middle, making him jump. "It's okay, I won't tell anyone, Dean. I promise." She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, the smell of her perfume tickling his nose. "You don't have to worry," she said, "it'll be our secret."

"Do you mean it?" he asked, his voice small and incredulous.

"I do," she said, pulling away and smiling brightly at him. "I'll tell everyone that you're a great kisser, and that should make them leave you alone."

"Ronda…" he said, his voice breaking as his eyes filled with tears, wrapping his arms around her small, petite frame. "Thank you so much."

"I like you, Dean," she said in response. "I don't want to see you get hurt."

"It's okay," Dean said, shrugging his shoulder. "Girls wear that gross lip gloss stuff and it's really sticky and just gets everywhere. It isn't bad. It depends on the girl."

Sammy nodded and looked down at the floor for a second, before lifting his head with a shy look on his face. "What about boys? Have you ever kissed a boy before, Dean?" Unconsciously, he shifted closer on the sofa towards Dean, who was staring at him with his heart hammering in his throat, his lungs refusing to take in air.

"N-no, Sam," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I haven't. But if you want to, that's fine, do you hear me? There's nothing wrong with wanting to kiss boys, no matter what people say. Or Dad." He felt a small ray of hope bloom in his chest, but he dared not say anything else for fear he scared Sammy away with his feelings. He shifted closer to Sam, just enough to feel the warmth radiating off of his brother.

"Okay," Sammy said, nodding and staring Dean straight in the eye. He was silent for a moment before he blushed deeply, and he lowered his voice to ask, "What if I wanted to kiss you?"

Dean's mouth suddenly went dry, his heart going so fast he briefly thought that he was going to go into cardiac arrest. He lifted a shaking hand and cupped the back of Sammy's neck, pulling his baby brother closer to him. "I'd say that that would be okay with me," he whispered, swallowing thickly, his eyes dropping down to his brother's lips.

Sam sighed in relief, leaning forward and pressing his lips against Dean, who sat frozen for a second, before he was suddenly kissing Sammy back. His senses were assaulted by Sam, the smell of their Old Spice soap and the faint scent of cigarette smoke in Sam's clothes, and the smell underneath that was entirely his little brother, the sweet but musky smell, and the feel of his slightly chapped but still perfectly soft lips against Dean's own, and Dean was sure that he was going to die right then and there.

Their first kiss was nowhere near perfect , no-one's first kiss ever was, but Dean had wanted to kiss his brother for so long that to him, there had never been a more perfect kiss in the entire history of the world.

He loved Sammy so much that sometimes his heart felt like it was being squeezed by boa constrictor, and he knew that he would die for his brother without a second thought. He had looked after Sam for his entire life, Sam was his to protect and his to love.

Everyone else could go fuck themselves for all he cared.

* * *

_Sammy is so smart, Dad, he really is. He knows so much about everything and he could do anything that he wanted to. He deserves so much more than this life, Dad. He doesn't want to chase monsters anymore, and I don't either. I just want to be with Sam, always. _

_I would give the entire world to give Sam anything that he wanted. And he wants this. He wants to go to Stanford, he wants to become a lawyer. He can still help people, just in a different way. _

_Dad, please. Let him do this._

* * *

They had a day off.

This itself was a rarity; usually their days off consisted of cramming into the back of the Impala and trying to keep their hands off one another on their way to another job on the other side of the country, stopping only to eat and refill the tank.

John wasn't in the motel room when Dean woke up, which wasn't all that unusual, but the note left taped to the door definitely was.

_Driving out to the next town, heard something that might be a job. Didn't want to wake you boys until I was sure. I'll be back sometime late tomorrow. Look after Sammy. – Dad_

Dean smiled sleepily to himself and set the note down on the kitchen table before shuffling over to Sammy's bed, lying down on his side, his chest to Sammy's back, pressing his face into Sam's neck and throwing an arm over his brother's waist.

Sam stirred in his sleep, turning over so that they lay chest to chest, snuggling into his brother's warm embrace. They didn't get to lay together often, with John staying in the same room as them and constantly around them, but Dean tried to take advantage of every opportunity they had to cuddle with Sam.

He would swear on pain of death that he did not _cuddle_, but Sam saw through his blustering and accepted it with a smile and invite him to bed.

Dean peppered Sam's neck with several small kisses, just pecks really, but it was enough to rouse his little brother. He opened his eyes and blinked blearily a few times, his body still feeling heavy with sleep. "Dean?" he breathed. "What're you doin'?"

"Dad's not here," Dean answered, "won't be back until tomorrow. Decided that I wanted to come lay with you."

Sammy smiled tiredly. "You mean you wanted to _cuddle_," he said, nestling his head into Dean's shoulder, ignoring Dean's spluttered answers and felt himself starting to drift back off to sleep. "We should do something today."

"What do you wanna do, Sammy?" Dean asked, his hand rubbing circles into Sam's back. "We can do anything you want."

"I dunno," Sammy slurred. "I'll think of something when I wake up."

Before Dean could answer, Sam fell asleep once more and he sighed in exasperation, but he stayed there, his legs tangled together with Sam's longer ones, fingers trailing down Sam's back as he listened to his little brother breathe, enjoying the quiet and the closeness, until Sam woke up.

He always stayed with Sam.

And he always would.

* * *

_You would never accept Sam and I, Dad. You would probably pop us full of salt and silver, call us all kinds of degrading names. You would never understand how I feel about him. _

_Sam is my entire world. I can't live without him, and I don't want to. I've been in love with him for as long as I can remember, and I would never hurt him the way you are now. All he's ever wanted is your approval and your support. _

_Honestly, if you knew about us, you would never give it. But he loves you and I love you, and all we want is for you to be proud of us. We've tried so hard._

* * *

They had been on a poltergeist hunt somewhere in the middle of Montana when Dean thought that he had lost Sam.

The house had to be over one hundred years old, a nice, large Victorian house that seemed somewhat out of place given its location, but he really didn't put that much thought into it as he and Sam escorted the terrified couple and their two young daughters out of their home and told them to go to a hotel in the nearest town before heading back in, ready to do a salt and burn.

"The remains are probably somewhere in the house," Sam said, looking around in the living room at the modern furniture, which seemed inappropriate given the house's age. "I'm thinking either the basement or the attic."

"Basement, probably," Dean said, digging through their bags and handing a sawed-off shotgun to Sam and pulling one out for himself. "I hate poltergeists. Give me a normal ghost any day."

Sam snorted in amusement, smiling to himself as he cocked the gun and started into the next room, keeping an ear out for the poltergeist, poking his head around the corner to Dean and signaling for him to follow him. They crept quietly through the house, their fingers on the triggers when they heard the first vase shatter.

"Let's hurry up and get out of here," Dean muttered, taking the lead and opening the door to the basement, taking care to be quiet on the rickety old stairs. Sam followed behind him dutifully, covering his back.

The basement was old and musty, smelling of decay and soil, the ground under their feet spongy with moisture and rot. The pipes in the ceiling were rusted and leaky, and Dean was sure that there was at least six different type of mold growing in this basement.

"So, if I was trying to get rid of a body in my house," Dean said, "and I stick it in the basement, where would I put it?" He looked around the basement, the only source of light coming from a tiny window near the ceiling, checking for some indicator of where the body would be.

"Next time I need to get rid of a body, I'll let you know, Dean."

"Very funny, Sam," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He froze when he heard footsteps upstairs, and he pointed his gun towards the door at the top of the stairs. "It's coming this way. We gotta find this thing and find it fast."

Whatever Sam had been about to say next was drowned out by the basement door being blasted off its hinges, heading straight for where the boys were standing. Sam pushed Dean out of the way, knocking the two of them onto the ground, with Sam sprawled on top of Dean.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean said with a grunt. "If you wanted to be on top so bad, you shoulda said something."

Sam gave Dean his ultimate Bitch Face before sliding off of him, sticking out a hand to pull Dean to his feet. "Dean, now is definitely not the time for that," he said, aiming his gun towards the doorway. He peered up the stairs, waiting for the next attack, but nothing happened. "Just find the body, I'll cover you."

"I love it when you're bossy," Dean said with a grin, earning a sigh of exasperation from Sam. "Okay, okay, I get it." He stepped away from Sam and ducked around the side of the stairs, looking through the wooden beams for a grave marker.

He nearly sighed in relief when he saw something large and vaguely coffin-shaped, probably left there by the house's previous owners. How the current owners had missed this hulking thing, he would never understand, but he set about opening it without another thought. He found a shovel pressed up against the wall, which he swapped his gun out for, and began to use the spade to break the seal on the coffin.

Dean kept an ear out for the poltergeist, but mostly he just listened to Sammy breathing, a sound that he found soothed him whenever he was worked up about something. To him, safety was the sound of Sammy breathing and the warmth of his body next to Dean's.

He pried the lid of the coffin open once the seal finally cracked, wincing at the pungent odor coming from the decayed body. "Jesus, woman," he said to himself, digging the salt and lighter fluid out from his pockets. He sprinkled the body with salt and gave it good dousing of lighter fluid, and was about to find his lighter when he heard Sam's panicked shout.

"Dean!"

"Sam!"

Dean went straight for his gun, cocking it and aiming at the spot where Sam had been standing a moment ago. "Sam!" he shouted again.

"Behind you!"

Dean spun around, only to fly backwards into the wall, the contact knocking the breath out of him. He sagged against the wall for a moment, but he was on his feet when he heard Sam cry out again. "Sammy!"

Sam's gun had been torn out of his hands, lying just out of arm's reach, and Dean's stomach dropped to his feet when he saw Sammy pinned up against the wall, his feet dangling inches from the ground, his hands pawing desperately at his throat, his face turning red as he fought to breathe.

"Sam!"

Sam was going blue, hands trying to pry off the invisible vice around his neck, the poltergeist keeping him trapped there. His eyes found Dean's, filled with tears, and he motioned with his head in the direction of the coffin. _Go. Coffin. Now. Burn._

Dean nodded, pulling his lighter from his jacket and lit it, sprinting to the coffin and throwing it in, watching in muted satisfaction at the corpse catching flame. He heard a high-pitched wail and felt a cold rush of wind blow over him.

"Sam," he whispered as he turned around and saw Sam curled on the floor, his face as white a sheet, his eyes closed.

He looked like he wasn't breathing.

Dean flew to his side, pulling his brother into his arms, taking care not to jostle him too much, his heart thudding painfully in his chest as his hands fluttered around Sammy's face, trying to scramble a cohesive thought together.

"S-Sammy," he said, fingers finding the pulse spot in Sam's thought, and nearly falling over in relief when he felt a slightly irregular rhythm. "Oh God, Sam," he whispered into Sam's hair, pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead. "Wake up, Sammy, come on, wake up."

Sammy's eyes opened as if on command, and Dean grinned like an idiot down at him, pressing his lips against Sam's without a second thought, his fingers weaving themselves into Sam's soft hair tightly. Sam sat up in Dean's embrace, opening his mouth to allow Dean to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding into Sam's mouth with no shame. Sam moaned into his Dean's mouth, his hands gripping both sides of Dean's head.

Dean broke away first, breathless and panting, his face flushed. "I thought you were dead, Sam," he said quietly, careful not to make his voice accusatory.

"I thought I was dead too," Sam admitted, sighing in relief. "I'm glad that I'm not. I might've missed that."

"Bitch," Dean growled playfully, standing and helping Sam to his feet. "You alright?"

"Besides having just almost died? I'm peachy keen, Dean," Sam answered, grabbing Dean's shoulder to steady himself. "I'm a little light-headed, but I'll be fine. I promise. Let's just get out of here."

"I can do that," Dean answered, picking up Sam's gun and handing it to him before leading his brother back up the stairs.

They drove back to their motel in silence, Sam looking out the window of the Impala, Dean focusing on the road, but their hands lay intertwined over the console, Dean's thumb tracing little patterns on Sam's skin, making Sam smile.

"What do you say," Dean said after a while, "that we hit the hay early tonight. Dad won't be back until tomorrow night at the earliest, and I'm sure that we could both use the rest."

"Sounds good," Sam said, squeezing Dean's hand and resting his head back against the passenger seat.

That plan, however, was thrown out the minute the motel door shut behind them.

Sam immediately latched himself onto Dean's lips, wrestling Dean's jacket off of him, letting it fall to the floor in a graceless heap. His hands slid underneath Dean's shirt, his short nails scratching slightly at the skin the way he knew Dean liked it. Dean's hands went to Sam's hair, pulling on it lightly as he navigated them to the bed, laughing quietly when the back of Sam's knees hit the mattress and sent him crashing down.

"You're so beautiful, Sam," Dean said, pressing kisses down Sam's throat as his hands worked on the buttons of the plaid shirt Sam was wearing, lifting Sam up slightly to push it off of his shoulders. Once it was gone, Dean began planting kisses down Sam's chest, loving the way Sam's breath caught when he ran his hands down his sides.

"D-Dean," Sam breathed, "don't tease me."

Dean smirked against Sam's skin, his mouth hovering over Sam's nipple. He breathed down onto it, making Sam shudder in pleasure, and then took it into his mouth, sucking on it gently and moaning when Sam ground his hips upward into Dean's.

Sam tugged at the hem of Dean's t-shirt, pulling it up over his torso, his fingers feeling like fire against Dean's bare skin, running over his abs and pectorals, before he pulled it over Dean's head, throwing it onto the floor behind him. He breathed in Dean's scent, cologne and tobacco and gunpowder, licking a stripe up Dean's neck before Dean took control of his mouth.

Dean opened his mouth, hot and heavy against Sam's, drawing Sam's tongue against his and sucking on it slightly, neither of them fighting for dominance. Sam bit down gently on Dean's bottom lip, making his older brother groan. His hands went to Dean's belt, undoing it with a practiced ease and tossed it aside, unbuttoning his jeans.

Dean ground his hips downward, the friction of their clothed erections making Sam gasp and buck his hips up into Deans. "Dean," he moaned, trying not to fall apart with Dean sucking on his neck and pulling on his hair at the same time. "Dean, pants, please. Off, now."

Dean smirked against his neck, biting down roughly on Sam's skin, making Sam cry out loudly. "Shhh, Sammy," Dean said, lifting his hips up so Sam could push his jeans and boxers down. When his jeans caught around his ankles, he cursed, remembering that he hadn't taken his boots off yet.

He struggled for a moment to kick them off, seeing as they weren't tied all that tightly, and he could feel Sammy doing the same, and, at the moment, he could have laughed, but then he felt Sam lift his hips to push his jeans off and all coherent thoughts he had flew out the window.

Sammy grinned at him and ground his cock against Dean's, earning him a strangled noise from his older brother's throat. Sam nipped at Dean's Adams apple, licking a stripe over the flesh down to the hollow of his throat, and Dean ground himself downwards in response, his hands pinning Sammy's arms down above his head.

"You're going to be the death of me, Sammy," Dean said breathlessly, aligning their cocks and rubbing himself against Sam.

Sam moaned, gritting his teeth as he spat out, "Are you going to fuck me or play games all day?"

Dean grinned down at his brother. "My, my, Sammy," he drawled, "you sure have a dirty mouth."

"Dean," Sam begged, unable to keep the whine out of his voice as he ground up against Dean, desperate for some friction.

"What do we say when we want something, Sammy?" Dean asked, peppering Sam's throat with open-mouthed kisses, the temptation to tease his little brother far too sweet for him to give up. "I know you know the magic words."

"Deeean…."

"That's not it Sammy," Dean said, grinding his hips down to meet Sam's. He was dying to be inside Sam, to fill him, but he was going to make himself wait, to make Sam wait.

Because he was a sadistic bastard who liked to tease his brother.

"Dean…_please…_"

It came out as a soft whisper, full of pleading and want, and, with the unrestrained desire in Sammy's eyes, it was nearly Dean's undoing.

"Okay, Sammy, okay," he murmured, reaching over Sam's head to the nightstand on the other side of the bed, opening the drawer and pulling out their lube, the small bottle they went through great pains to hide from their father.

Dean popped the lid and poured a copious amount onto his hand, wincing slightly at the coldness on his heated skin. He set the bottle back in the drawer and trailed his coated hand down Sammy's chest, past the younger boy's cock and down to his opening, gently pressing his middle finger in.

Sammy came alive when he felt Dean's finger enter him, and he pushed himself downward onto Dean's hand as Dean pumped his finger, writhing and moaning Dean's name.

Dean shortly slid a second finger in, scissoring them and stretching Sam, nearly coming from the sounds falling from Sam's lips, so he captured Sam's mouth with his own, carefully adding a third finger.

Sam bit down on Dean's lip again and moaned loudly, panting and flushed with exertion, which Dean thought was an absolute beautiful sight. His Sammy, his beautiful, smart as a whip, pain in the fucking ass baby brother, lost in his own ecstasy.

"Are you ready, Sammy?" he whispered into Sam's ear, pressing a kiss to Sam's temple.

When Sam nodded, too far gone to enunciate anything clearly, Dean removed his fingers and rubbed his hands on his aching dick, before his pushed in slowly, gasping at how tight Sam felt around him, how warm and fantastic, how…how…

Dear fucking God, Sammy was absolutely beautiful.

Sam's eyes flew open, his pupils blown wide, and the sound that he let out should have been illegal. Dean shuddered, and began to move, his hips moving smoothly as Sam wrapped his legs around them, opening himself wider to Dean.

"You feel _so_ good, Sammy," Dean muttered in his ear as Sam started to move with him, his arms going around Dean's neck to pull him closer to him and kiss him gently, moaning into Dean's mouth. "So, so good, Sammy."

When Dean came, he closed his eyes and pressed his face into Sam's neck, and breathed out, "I love you so much, Sammy. I love you so much."

He pulled out of Sam carefully and lay on his back, pulling Sam up next to him and wrapping his arms around him, their legs tangled together, Sam's head resting over his heart. They both were too exhausted to bother cleaning up, figuring they would get it in the morning. Dean settled into the bed, pulling the blankets over their bodies and was nearly asleep when he felt Sammy kiss the skin of his chest and say, "I love you too, Dean. More than life."

That was the best sleep Dean Winchester ever had in his entire life.

* * *

"I earned this, Dad!" Sam was shouting, the acceptance letter to Stanford crumpled in his hands. "I worked hard to get this scholarship! It's not like you have to pay for anything! I earned all of it without your help, and without you!"

"You can't have the apple pie life, Sam!" John yelled. "You can never have that life!"

"I don't care!" Sam screamed, his resolve breaking and tears flowing from his eyes. "I don't care what you say! I'm going to do this whether you like it or not!"

Dean's breath caught in his throat as John surged forward, his arm poised to strike Sam, the sound of flesh hitting flesh shaking him out of his stupor. Fury boiled in his veins and he flew towards his father, his fist connecting with his father's jaw before he knew what came over him. A jolt of pain flew up his arm, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"You might have smacked me around when I was a kid, Dad, but don't you ever hit Sammy!" he roared, stepping in between them, shielding Sam with his body. "Don't you ever lay a hand on him, and you never will, not as long as I'm alive!"

John, cradling his jaw with one hand, stared at Dean, his perfect little solider, who looked so enraged he wouldn't have been surprised if Dean began to spit fire. "D-Dean…"

"Sam worked his ass off between hunts to study and to do well to do something better with his life," Dean continued, his rage far for dissipated. "So he's going to fucking go to Stanford! Because that's what he deserves! As far as I'm concerned, Sam deserves the entire fucking world!"

John stared at his sons, both of their faces flushed in anger, standing together, perfectly in sync in a way that he would never understand. He knew the two would move mountains for one another – hell, they'd die for each other, and he knew that he was outmatched against the both of them.

"If you go, then don't you come back, Samuel," he said quietly. "Do you understand me?"

For a moment, Sam looked stricken, but he recovered and he nodded, before turning stiffly to finish packing his things, not saying a word as he stuffed the small amount of belongings he had into a duffel bag. Dean glared at his father, silently daring him to say anything else.

"I guess this is goodbye, then," Sam said as he hoisted his bag onto his shoulders. His cast his eyes to the ground, not willing to look at Dean or his father.

"Go get in the car, Sam," Dean said, taking John and Sam by surprise. "I'm going with you."

John face flushed red again. "Now wait just a second, Dean-"

"No," Dean interrupted, his voice cold and acidic. "Wherever Sam goes, I go. And that's how it's gonna be. You can't say shit to me about abandoning you, Dad. Not when you abandoned us so many times growing up."

John stared at his oldest in shock as he went to the other side of the room and picked up his already packed duffel bag. He nodded at Sam and motioned for him to leave, which he did without another glance at his father.

When the door closed, Dean turned to John and glared at him hatefully, his green eyes angry and determined. "You might be my father, but you're lucky I didn't kill you when you touched him. He's the best thing that we have in this world, and you've gone and ruined it. All he ever wanted – hell, all I ever fucking wanted – was for you to be proud of us. He wanted you to be proud that he got into Stanford. And could you put all the years of pent of hate and do that for your son? No. You couldn't."

Dean shook his head and roughly pushed past John, who was staring at him with his mouth hanging open. When he reached the door, he touched the handle and then turned back. "Don't expect to hear from us anytime soon, Dad."

Dean Winchester opened the door and slammed it shut, severing all hopes that he might have ever had of fixing his relationship with his father.

Sammy was leaning against the side of the Impala, his bag sitting at his feet. His arms were crossed and he was staring at the ground, his hair blowing in the wind. He looked as if he were fighting off tears, and Dean's chest began to ache.

"Come on, Sammy," he said, unlocking the trunk and setting his bag in. "It's a long ride to Stanford, and I'm not stopping every time you have to pee."

Sam rolled his eyes and handed his bag to Dean, shaking his head. "You're such a jerk, you know that?" he asked, opening the passenger side door and sliding it.

"Yeah," Dean said, slamming the trunk shut and climbing in. "But I'm your jerk."

He leaned over the seat to kiss Sammy softly, and he didn't care who saw him.

The night that Mary Winchester died, Dean might have lost his mother, his home, and his childhood, but at the moment, it didn't seem all that horrific.

Because he'd gotten Sammy, and that was all that mattered to him.

* * *

_Holy Jesus on flatbread, this story took so long to write. I swear to God, I almost lost my mind halfway through. This was supposed to be a short, cute little one-shot about Sammy and Dean and then it grew legs and ran the fuck away from me. Shit. Well, I guess it's time for me to go to bed. Adios, darlings! Read, review, send me so lovin's!_

_Love and affection,_

_Sael_


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